The marketplace nestled in a small hollow near the Brada Palace, lined with a honeycomb of tiny shops displaying Tibetan script that was incomprehensible, yet the goods arrayed before each storefront made their purpose clear.

Admittedly, due to geographical constraints, the Tibetan market offered little in the way of truly eye-catching wares—mostly yak-horn knives, horse whips, roasted mutton, dried yak meat, and various tourist souvenirs dangling from bamboo poles. However, these items were all exquisitely crafted and vibrantly colored, certainly worth acquiring a few pieces. Warm-hearted proprietors would often present guests with kata scarves as a gesture of sincere gratitude, making for a truly convivial atmosphere for both host and visitor.

Not long after arriving, Young Master Liu and his party found a noodle shop and settled in. Fan Debiao declared that the shop’s hand-shaved knife-cut noodles were a local specialty. Made from barley flour and kneaded with ice water fetched from the Tianshan mountains, the dough was then skillfully sliced directly into the steaming pot by a master using a cleaver. Fan claimed it was not only smooth to eat but also wonderfully chewy—something utterly impossible to replicate by factory machinery. Furthermore, the broth was simmered from ox bones, lending it a rich, savory flavor and high nutritional value. Once the noodles were cooked and submerged in a large bowl, topped with a dash of sauce, some vegetables, and a few generous forks of roasted meat, it was a culinary experience so delightful it made one’s tongue ache with pleasure.

Intrigued by Fan Debiao’s detailed description, the others’ appetites were instantly whetted. They quickly found seats around tables and chairs, gathering together with cheerful anticipation.

The temperature in Tibet was biting; at this season, the outside air could easily drop below minus twenty degrees Celsius. Sometimes, a stream of urine would begin to crystallize into icy shards halfway to the ground. At that moment, the warm breath exhaled by everyone had already condensed into tiny droplets, forming a dense, white mist that obscured their view.

The noodle shop was busy, keen to keep patrons satisfied. To preempt hunger, the waiter specially brought around a thermos of piping hot butter tea for those who hadn't yet received their noodles. In such weather, merely holding a cup of this intensely hot beverage provided immediate comfort, and swallowing it brought forth an indescribable richness that warmed them to the core.

Fan Debiao downed two cups in quick succession, while Yang Weidong and Cai Qingchong sipped theirs slowly, occasionally blowing across the surface. Only Young Master Liu put his cup down after a single tentative sip, frowning deeply; he was clearly unaccustomed to it.

“What in the world is this? It’s not milk, not green tea... achoo... and why is there salt in it?” Young Master Liu sneezed, his facial muscles pulling tight.

The waiter, standing nearby, heard the complaint, and the cheerful smile instantly vanished from his face. Fortunately, Fan Debiao quickly smoothed things over, apologized on Liu’s behalf, and gently ushered the waiter away.

“Young Master, didn’t I tell you on the plane to be mindful of the local customs and etiquette?” Fan Debiao lowered his voice, discreetly nudging Young Master Liu’s arm.

“You… you didn’t mention what this stuff tastes like! I thought you said it was some kind of green tea. Then I tasted it—it has this weird flavor, not sweet, not bitter, just salty…” Young Master Liu grimaced.

“Once you’ve started drinking it here, you must finish it all, or they’ll view it as a sign of disrespect.”

“I have to finish it?” Young Master Liu’s vision briefly darkened. He truly had an aversion to this thick, yellowish liquid.

“Finish it!”

Seeing Young Master Liu struggling, Jia Zhuangyuan demonstrated by slowly drinking his own cup before calmly offering an explanation. Because the region of Kangba is a high-altitude area, with elevations often exceeding three to four thousand meters, tsampa, dairy products, butter, and mutton constitute the staple diet of the Tibetan people. In such extreme cold, the body requires the high caloric intake provided by fat. Since vegetables are scarce and tsampa is considered heating, excessive fat is difficult for the body to process. Tea, however, helps break down fat while counteracting the heating effect. Thus, over generations, Tibetans developed the high-altitude custom of drinking butter tea.

Butter tea is prepared by boiling brick tea, adding su-yu (butter extracted from yak milk), and vigorously churning the mixture in a tall, slender wooden churn using a dasher until it forms an emulsion. An alternative method involves placing the butter and tea into a leather bag, sealing the opening, and pounding it forcefully with a wooden stick. This process of preparing butter tea is referred to as “churning” or “beating” it, and it is an arduous task for the hostess serving guests.

The Tibetans’ preference for butter tea over plain brick tea stems from the fact that brick tea is acidic, which stimulates intestinal movement and speeds up digestion, leading to quick hunger if consumed alone. Therefore, butter or milk must be added. If conditions permit, nuts or other dried fruits might also be stirred in. This way, even if the head of the household rides out to tend the herds, a single cup before leaving ensures they will not feel cold or hungry on the journey.

After Jia Zhuangyuan’s thorough explanation, Young Master Liu finally gritted his teeth and downed the viscous beverage with a sense of forced understanding, though the frown on his brow never once relaxed during the entire process.

“The noodles are here—authentic wild yak meat noodles from Tibet.” A moment later, the waiter finally delivered the five large bowls. To their surprise, this young Tibetan man spoke Mandarin, though his articulation was somewhat slurred, allowing them to grasp the general meaning.

Bowing their heads to examine the bowls, although the presentation of the noodles was simple and ordinary, the aroma alone was intoxicating.

“Little brother, how much is this in total?” Fan Debiao deftly aligned his chopsticks on the table and asked with a grin.

“Five bowls of noodles, five yuan total. The butter tea just now was a welcoming gesture for the guests, so that’s free,” the waiter replied earnestly.

Flipping through the contents of his bowl with chopsticks, Young Master Liu immediately felt a flush of embarrassment. This single large bowl was equivalent in volume to four bowls of beef noodles he usually ate in Hong Kong, and the noodles themselves looked perfectly substantial. Most remarkably, the yak meat occupied nearly half the bowl. Elsewhere, this would be an unthinkable extravagance; truly, this was excellent value for money.

“Not bad, not bad!” he murmured, nodding his appreciation.

“Please enjoy your meal, esteemed guests from afar. If you finish and still desire something extra, just call me! We have quite a few small side dishes that go well with noodles,” the waiter offered.

“Oh, there are side dishes too?” Fan Debiao’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, yes,” the waiter confirmed. “We have dried pistachios, roasted mutton skewers, ciba (pounded rice cake), and more.”

“Alright then. Keep the change,” Fan Debiao announced generously, pulling out a crisp hundred-yuan green bill and placing it on the table. “Give us extra snacks, load up on those mutton skewers, haha, and you don’t need to return the rest.”

In those days, a hundred yuan was certainly not a trivial sum, especially in remote areas. That amount was enough to support a family of three Tibetans comfortably for several months.

The waiter stared at the bill, momentarily stunned, hesitant to accept it. It took a firm insistence from Fan Debiao before he finally took it. True to their reputation for honesty, the Tibetans soon delivered several large basins of snacks, and the owner even moved the mutton skewer rack right in front of the group, roasting fresh lamb for them on the spot.

With large bowls of noodles, generous cuts of meat, and the mild tsingke barley wine—which even Young Master Liu now sipped without complaint—he focused entirely on devouring the food with Yang Weidong and Cai Qingchong. Fan Debiao ate until his face was slick with grease. Only when his stomach could physically hold no more mutton skewers did he reluctantly wipe his mouth, light a cigarette for the owner, and begin boasting animatedly.

It was then that Fan Debiao’s phone rang. It was their pre-arranged guide, who had finalized his preparations. Seeing that everyone was still eager for more, Fan suggested having the guide meet them directly at the noodle shop for introductions to avoid awkwardness later.

About fifteen minutes later, the guide arrived, wearing a broad, ingratiating smile. He was clad in a full fur coat, his face dark from the sun, but his eyes held a distinct cunning, occasionally flashing with sharp intelligence during the conversation.

“Greetings, bosses. My name is Bato, a native of Tibet. If you encounter anything you don’t understand on your journey, just ask me, don’t be shy, hehe,” the guide said, grabbing a pair of chopsticks from the holder, wiping them on his sleeve, accepting a bowl of noodles from the proprietor, and beginning to devour it almost like swallowing whole.

“Young Master, look at this young man—quite capable and energetic, wouldn’t you say?” Fan Debiao seemed highly satisfied with Bato.

“Not bad, not bad. Little brother, what did you do before this?” Young Master Liu asked casually, taking a bite of a mutton skewer.

“Nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all. I tried a few businesses in past years, but all ended in losses. Recently, tourism has picked up, and relying on my decent speaking skills, I manage to make a living,” Bato explained. “But Bato isn't boasting; if you need to know anything about Tibet, there’s no one more familiar with this place than me. Hiring me will definitely save you time and trouble, bosses.”

“Oh, is that so! We will certainly rely on your expertise this time, brother. Here, have a skewer!” Young Master Liu plucked a skewer from the charcoal fire and handed it over.

“Thank you, boss,” Bato accepted the offering with fawning gratitude. However, he failed to notice that the instant his palm opened to receive the skewer, both Young Master Liu and Jia Zhuangyuan’s eyes narrowed simultaneously.

Seemingly sensing their reaction, Young Master Liu and Jia Zhuangyuan turned to each other and shared a knowing smile.

“Brother Bato, you haven’t eaten breakfast, have you? Here, eat more. We’ve ordered plenty, and it would be a waste if we don't finish it all,” Young Master Liu swept all the roasted skewers from the table directly in front of Bato.

“Boss, you are too kind,” Bato felt genuinely embarrassed.

“Heh heh, no trouble at all,” Young Master Liu waved his hand dismissively, then clapped Fan Debiao on the shoulder. “Fatty, let’s go. I’m stuffed from eating; I’ll stroll up ahead with you for a bit before coming back.”

“Alright!” Fan Debiao noticed nothing amiss, assuming Young Master Liu genuinely wanted to walk around. He set down his food, said goodbye to the others, and followed Young Master Liu out.

The two walked forward about fifty meters along the thoroughfare when Young Master Liu suddenly stopped Fan Debiao.

“Weren’t we going for a stroll? Why stop now?” Fan Debiao turned back, puzzled. “Just a little further up is a souvenir shop; I’ll take you there for a look. That place has a good reputation.”

Young Master Liu remained silent, lighting a cigarette and knitting his brow tightly.

“Young Master, what’s wrong?”

“Ever since we sat down, you’ve seemed a bit strange,” Fan Debiao started to feel uneasy.

Young Master Liu didn’t answer his question, merely tilting his chin slightly: “Debiao, is that guide reliable?”

“Why the sudden question?” Fan Debiao looked thoroughly confused.

“Just tell me: reliable or not reliable!”

Fan Debiao was silent for a moment, then nodded. “He should be reliable!”

“Then what about his hands?”

“Hands? Hands are just hands! What’s wrong with them, are they claws now?” Fan Debiao was completely lost in the back-and-forth with Liu.

“Idiot,” Young Master Liu exhaled a smoke ring. “That Tibetan man has thick calluses on the second joint of his right index finger and the outer edge of his right thumb.”

“Calluses? So what about calluses?”

“Calluses themselves aren't the issue, but having them appear on both those specific locations simultaneously points to only one conclusion,” Young Master Liu stated coolly.

“What conclusion? Spit it out!” Fan Debiao was nearly shouting in frustration. He realized Young Master Liu was beginning to pick up the peculiar habits of that old man, Jia.

“You should look at Yang Weidong. You’ll notice the location of his calluses is identical to Bato’s. Old Master Jia noticed this too.”

“You mean?” Fan Debiao’s eyes widened.

“He’s handled a gun, and not just casually,” Young Master Liu dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and viciously ground it out with his shoe.

“Do you think a mere unemployed drifter would have access to military assault rifles?”

“Well…” Fan Debiao’s face paled. “Perhaps the local customs here are tough, and they handle hunting rifles often—that’s possible. Gun control is nonexistent here anyway, and it’s entirely plausible for young men to own a few firearms. Besides, didn’t the young man seem perfectly honest? You’re overthinking this, aren't you?”

Young Master Liu nodded slowly. “I hope so.”

“However, our mission is classified, and you know the rest. Let’s avoid attracting trouble. And you, keep a low profile—don’t flash your wealth! After following Big Grasshopper for all these years, did you learn nothing but how to ruin things?” He patted Fan Debiao on the chest before walking back alone.

Fan Debiao stood motionless for a long moment, then shook his head with a wry smile and followed him back.